


Gypsum Eyes That Can Hypnotize (Wasn’t Just Me They Could See)

by prouvairablehulk



Series: Better To Reign [2]
Category: DC's Legends of Tomorrow (TV), The Flash (TV 2014)
Genre: Angels are apparently assholes, F/F, Iris and Caitlin did not mean for this to happen, M/M, Mick and Len are parenting Jax already, The Demon Diner AU gets a sequel, happy murder families
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-18
Updated: 2016-05-18
Packaged: 2018-06-09 06:45:19
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,356
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6894313
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/prouvairablehulk/pseuds/prouvairablehulk
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This is the problem with recurring souls – the life you left behind can so easily slide back to bite you in the ass.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Gypsum Eyes That Can Hypnotize (Wasn’t Just Me They Could See)

**Author's Note:**

> So, um, this happened. This verse got under my skin.

This is the problem with recurring souls – the life you left behind can so easily slide back to bite you in the ass. 

***  
They used to say that Central was a nothing town, filler on a long highway leading nowhere that should have collapsed under itself years ago. Now, it is notorious as the center of the complex web of thieves and liars and criminals who pledge themselves to the man called Cold. No officer has been able to get anywhere near the place in months, but the information dissipating slowly from the informants who have made it in suggest that Cold has been amassing an inner circle. 

This is what Lead Detective Joseph West knows about said inner circle: Cold’s right hand is called Heatwave. He’s a big man, built to intimidate, and smokes like a bellows. They seem to be involved with one another (“fucking like rabbits”, was the description Joe received, “on every available surface, regardless of potential audience”). His left hand, however, is a slip of a woman with big brown doe eyes and a mess of tangled curls – who apparently will cut you as soon as look at you. She’s referred to as Glider, and seems to be Cold’s sister, from what they can understand. Cold’s top enforcer – they call her the Canary – seems to be wrapped around Glider’s little finger. Then there’s Piper, who fits the description of rich-boy-runaway Hartley Rathaway, a woman they call Peek-a-boo, a young man named Trickster, and one of Joe’s informants claims he saw notorious bank robber Mark Mardon in the kitchen. No one’s seen hide nor hair of Mardon since his brother was killed, so it is as likely as any of the other information his informants bring him. 

And this is the other information they bring him: They say Cold can literally freeze a man with his glare, that he murdered his father with a pearl-handled knife and that his sister gilded each and every cut with gold she manifested from thin air. They say Heatwave lights his cigarettes off the tips of his fingers, and that Mardon can call thunderstorms and lightning down from the heavens. They say the Canary has died and woken twice over, and that her skills are unparalleled. They say Peek-a-boo can teleport in a burst of smoke, that the Trickster causes luck to go south with a word, that Rathaway can burst a man’s eardrums and throw him through a wall with a burst of song. They say that they all have eyes that appear the color of pitch in the right light. They say this circle has lived before and shall live again, and they speak of them in hushed tones like they will be summoned by their names. They speak of them like gods, or monsters, or the thing that you don’t want to meet in a dark alley. They speak of Cold’s Rogues like something blasphemous and unholy, like demons. 

And more unbelievable than all this, to Joe at least, are Flash and Vibe, the last two members of Cold’s crew. They say Flash is tall and lean, with dark hair and green eyes, and he smiles like sunshine. They say that Vibe is small and dark, with shoulder-length hair, a constant stream of pop culture references, and puppy-dog eyes that could earn him a small country. And based on these descriptions, Joe would think that he might have a lead on the whereabouts of his missing foster son, Barry, and Barry’s best friend (and maybe boyfriend) Cisco Ramon. The issue is that the word on Flash and Vibe doesn’t stop there. Rather, it continues thusly: they say that Flash’s smile hides a venom unlike any other, that if Cold asked, Flash would drop a man where he stood. They say he pulled a man’s lungs from his chest at a word from Cold. They say Heatwave has pulled him off people he’s beaten to the edge of death. They say his mood changes like the weather, from sunny bright to murderously dark in seconds. They say Vibe can see through time, that he knows a liar and a fraud as soon as he touches their skin. They say he can thin the borders between this world and the next. They say he can speak to the dead, that he’s shared milkshakes with the little people from the world next door, that he can shift the atoms in your body until it barely resembles something human. And that? That isn’t Barry and Cisco. That could never be Barry and Cisco. 

“Joe?”

Eddie Thawne is standing in the door to Joe’s office, a manila file clutched in white-knuckled hands. 

“Two things: new report coming out of Central – there’s more Rogues, a Doctor Light, a Firestorm, and a Girder.”

“And the other?”

“They found a car abandoned on the highway outside the city – the same one that was reported missing from outside the Cathedral on the day Barry and Cisco went missing. They ran the prints from the car, and, well –“

Eddie extends the folder across the space between them. The prints belong to Barry and Cisco, and Joe isn’t sure whether he’s relieved or more scared. He looks up at Eddie with hope in his heart and is met with an inscrutable expression in return. 

“They stole another car after that one, and they left the owner in the ditch. He didn’t get back up.”

Joe picks up his coat wordlessly, and pushes past Eddie to head to the scene. Perhaps it was the near-irrefutable proof that either Barry or Cisco now had innocent blood on their hands that made him overlook the fact that the file containing the descriptions of the Rogues and the GPS co-ordinates for the diner was missing from his desk when he returned. 

***  
The wind rips through the open windows and mostly drowns out the low murmur of the radio as Caitlin and Iris take the highway down towards Central. The contents of the file Iris swiped from her dad’s desk is spread out across the back seat, the coordinates for the Diner are in the GPS, and there’s an hours-old coffee in the cup holder next to Iris’s thigh. There’s a lead on Barry and Cisco that Joe can’t follow, but no one will recognize the two of them as police affiliated. When family is in trouble, you follow family. That’s how it goes. 

The next sign they pass says it is 66 miles to Central. Someone has used white spray paint to add an extra ‘6’ and changed ‘Central’ to read ‘Hell’. 

Iris keeps her foot on the accelerator, a steady 20 miles per hour over the speed limit carrying them onwards.  
***  
The sun spills slow like molasses across the room from the lavishly carved ledge of the window, illuminating details like they are the central focus of a Caravaggio. Here is a lighter, a simple red plastic zippo. Here is a packet of cigarettes, half finished. Here is a shirt, crumpled on the floor, buttons missing from overly enthusiastic removal. Here is a pair of heavy black boots, tumbled over in haste. Here is a glass on the side table, empty aside from the perfectly intact ice. Here are the sheets, mussed and tangled. Here are the men who live here, wrapped tight around one another. The light brushes them with soft color – stark lines of tattoos darker against honey-soft skin, the purple-green-blue of love bites and handprints rich like stained glass. Here are the ripples of old scar tissue, the long lines that nails scored beneath it in the throes of ecstasy. Here is the bite mark on a clear shoulder, stained with flaking maroon where the skin was broken. Here is the reverent silence of an irreverent coupling. 

Of course, such a thing is doomed to never last. 

“Morning, boss. We’ve got a problem.”

Len Snart, the man they call Cold, props himself on his elbows and regards Barry Allen with a sharp gaze. 

“Yes, we do, considering you woke me up like this.”

“You know I wouldn’t do that without good reason.” says Barry, with a bright grin. “I even brought apology coffee. Morning, Mick!” 

Mick grunts, and buries his head further into the pillow as Barry crosses the room to put the first mug down next to Len. 

“What’s the trouble, then, Flash?”

“Our old friend is about to make contact with my foster father.”

“The policeman?”

“Yes. Joe won’t be able to get close, not with the web we have, but who knows when it comes to our old friend.”

“Fucking angels.” snarls Mick, into his pillow. 

“He’ll be after you and Cisco, again.” says Len, eyes suddenly serious. 

“You let an angel close once in the 17th Century,” says Barry, putting the second mug down on Mick’s side of the bed, “and he traps you and the love of your eternal life in the crypt of a church and decides you’re his property.” 

“Only you, Scarlet.” grumbles Mick. “But he’s not laying a hand on you. Either of you. You’re family.” 

Barry grins, wide and open and happy. 

“You’re ours, Allen. And don’t you forget it. Now clear out, and we’ll be down for a war council in half an hour.” orders Len, customary smirk creeping on to his lips. 

“An hour.” says Mick, head lifting from his pillow for the first time. 

“Forty-five minutes.” compromises Len. 

“Whenever you’re done with morning sex, got it. See you at the diner in a bit!”

He closes the door behind him, but not fast enough to miss the first pleased moan.  
***  
They liked to joke that Bartholomew and Francisco made them sound like monks, but once, purely for the inherent blasphemy, they were. 

It was the worst decision the two of them had ever made. 

The result of “your little stunt”, as Len had taken to calling it since Barry and Cisco returned to the fold, was the fact that the two of them had an angel on their tail. And not just any angel, but an angel who was so obsessed with Barry that he began to call himself the Reverse Flash. And when they tried to leave, the he locked to two of them in a specially designed vault that was halfway into a celestial realm that was virtually impossible to escape. Barry’s response to this had been “whoops”, and Cisco’s had been “oh shit”, and this development corresponded exactly to the reasoning behind Mick and Len’s current protective streak. The issue with their escape was that the angel, whose name was in fact Eobard Thawne, knew about it almost instantly, and was now determined to track the two of them down once more. 

Mick and Len were hardly pleased by the idea that two of their family could potentially be taken away from them, and so there was a meeting of the Rogues taking place in the diner. Lisa and Sara were pouring coffee behind the counter, familiar actions happening almost independent of their thoughts as they chattered with the gang arrayed around the other side and the near booths. Mark and Axel sat on the counter to Lisa’s right, between the two waitresses and the door to the kitchens, not even bothering with the red-leather upholstered bar stools that fronted up to the chrome counter. Directly across from Sara and Lisa sat Shawna and Hartley, having a low-key elbow shoving war at their stools, and on Sara’s left were situated the three newest members: sweet-faced reporter Linda Park, Doctor Light, who left splotches on your retinas and empty holes in your bank accounts; Tony Woodward, Girder, whose iron fists left dents in the sides of cars; and Jefferson Jackson, Firestorm, who answered to Jax and lived almost permanently under Mick’s wing due to his fire-lit fingers and his remarkably young age. Barry and Cisco had taken up residence in the both closest to the crew at the counter, but left the opposite side of it empty for Mick and Len to use upon their arrival. Cisco was nursing a coffee, but Barry seemed particularly restless, glancing at shadows and drumming his fingers on the empty table in front of him. Mick and Len entered with their usual flair, flinging open both doors so they could walk in side by side, and slid into the bench seat opposite Barry and Cisco. The motion pulled down Len’s shirt enough reveal a blooming hickey on his collarbone, and Mick’s smug grin combined with the way he wouldn’t sit back against the leather of the booth told the remainder of the altogether rather predictable story. Barry can almost see the russet-red nail marks down Mick’s back and imagine the hand-shaped bruises on his hips. 

“Thawne’s going to make another attempt at grabbing Flash and Vibe. We can’t let that happen.” 

Len’s opening statement is as succinct as ever. There’s a pause while they wait for his next statement, because they all know its coming. Len can be terribly reliable sometimes. 

“What I need is for any and all newcomers into town to be steered towards the diner, and for all of us to be here all day. If he makes a move, or tries to influence someone else into making a move, we’ll be waiting for him. He may have overpowered Flash and Vibe last time, but I doubt he can overpower all of us.”

“I presume you have a contingency plan?” says Hartley, head tilted to one side as he considers their leader. 

“The paintings lining the walls in the cell he kept Flash and Vibe in contain a small part of our energy, in part as a means to allow Barry and Cisco to escape the first time, in part as a means to allow us all to escape should he catch us.”

“Contingency plan.” says Mardon, grinning. “Plan A is kick the shit out of him, right?”

“Right.” says Mick, and their vicious smiles match, showing nothing but teeth and repressed violent tendencies. Axel slurps up the last of his milkshake and then giggles without humor, the sound grating like the soundtrack of a bloody horror film. Barry has never felt more comfortable or safe in his life. 

They open up the diner, the same as always, after Sara and Lisa send out Len’s instructions by text to the members of their web that hover on the outskirts of Central. Mark, Len, and Axel start up the usual breakfast orders, and Barry ties his apron on with inhumanly fast fingers and dances out to start taking orders, safe in the knowledge that his family are protecting him.  
***  
He says his name is Eobard Thawne. He says that the people with him are Jay and Carter and Kendra. He says he knows where Barry and Cisco are – he’s responding to the open call from information about Cold and Heatwave. He says he can show them to their metaphorical doorstep. 

He gives them names. Leonard Snart. Michael Rory. Lisa Snart. Sara Lance. Rathaway. Mardon. Axel Walker. 

He seems to be helping, but something about him is off – is wrong.

Iris and Caitlin are gone, along with the files. Joe is desperate. Joe does not care. 

He calls Wally and tells him to stay at home. He tells Thawne to lead the way.

***  
Three hours into Barry’s shift and everything is starting to blur together into one endless stream of orders and refills. That’s probably the reason he doesn’t look too closely at the two women in the booth as he arrives to take their orders, just introduces himself and asks why he can get them to drink, pen already hovering over paper pad. 

“Barry?” 

His name is voiced in a tone somewhere between despair and desperation, and it snaps him instantly out of the pleasant haze he’d been working in. Iris and Caitlin shifted into sharp focus, and Barry took a sharp step back and shook his head. 

“You can’t be here.” he says, and then, a little louder, “You can’t be here!”

“Barry, what’s going on? Please let us help you.” pleads Iris.

“Is Cisco here too?” asks Caitlin.

“What the fuck is going on here?” demands Shawna, teleporting to Barry’s side and throwing dirty glares in the direction of the two women.

“You can’t be here.” Barry says, voice a whisper. “Oh my god, you’re in so much danger.”

“What about you? You disappeared without a word! There’s a man dead in a ditch with his car stolen and your fingerprints all over him.” snaps Iris. A soft smile begins to form on Barry’s face. 

“Getting sentimental?” teases Shawna, bumping her hip into her friend’s. 

“First kill after we woke up.” says Barry. “Of course I’m sentimental about it.” 

“If you ask Lisey, their first after they woke up was Lewis.”

“Their dad?”

“Mick’s idea, says Lisey.” 

Barry glances over at the horrified looks on Iris and Caitlin’s faces, and then takes off his apron and slides into the booth.

“Hey Peeks? Do me a favor and grab Vibe from wherever he and Pipes got off to, and tell Cold that we have a problem.”

“Is it a ‘oh no the angel’s back’ problem?”

“No. It’s a ‘my foster sister and Vibe’s best friend are sitting in the diner’ problem.”

“Shit.” says Shawna, and teleports to the kitchen. 

“What the fuck is going on.” demands Iris, folding her arms. Barry runs his hands over his face, interlocks his fingers, and rests his hands on his crumpled work apron where it sits on the table. Then he lets his eyes darken to black, Flash filling his blood with lightning. Caitlin gasps, and slams her hands over her mouth, and Barry grins. It’s Flash’s grin, the grin that lights his face when Cold slips his leash, gives him men and women who have crossed the line, who Cold wants killed, and killed bloody. 

“Sisters, am I right?” 

Len takes the spare seat next to Caitlin and sprawls into the open space with his usual latent sexuality. There’s a metallic scrape as Mick spins the nearest chair around and props his folded arms on the back. 

“These ones must be deep.” says Barry, because his brain-to-mouth filter is for shit when he’s stressed like he is now. 

“They ain’t the only thing that was deep.” says Mick, lecherous grin firmly in place. Len rolls his eyes and kicks Barry under the table, and Jax – passing with an armful of drinks – pauses to pull a face at the exchange. 

“Why?” he says, before he keeps moving. “It’s like thinking about my parents having sex!”

“You didn’t have to hear it!” Barry yells at his retreating back, and then he swears at Len for the stronger kick he’s just received. Iris looks confused, like she doesn’t know what to make of this insane little family Barry is a part of now, and Caitlin seems hung up on the sentimentality of murder, still. There’s the sound of running feet, and then Cisco is standing next to Mick, a look of stunned surprise on his face. 

“Caitlin?” he asks.  
“What happened to you?” demands Caitlin, and Mick rolls his eyes at her incredulity and pulls Cisco down to sit on one of his spread thighs. Cisco goes easily, thankful for the comforting contact, and reaches out to take Barry’s hand. 

“We woke up?” Cisco offers, tilting his head and assessing Caitlin, in her seat. “And I think you need to, as well.”

Caitlin’s eyes widen as Mick, Len, and Barry all turning piercing black stares on her. In unison, they tilt their heads to match Cisco’s as if whatever they are looking for can only be seen from that angle. Len starts to laugh. 

“If I hear even a single ice pun coming out of your mouth –“ starts Mick, and Cisco reaches up and covers his mouth before he can get any further.

“Shhhhhhh.” Cisco giggles, and Iris’ face is getting progressively more horrified. Then, more directly to Caitlin, he whispers, “Time to come home, Killer Frost.” 

Caitlin’s head snaps back in her seat until she’s staring straight at the ceiling, and Iris screams, drawing the attention of Lisa and Sara, where they’ve been working at the counter. The swing door flies open and Mark Mardon barrels into the room at a dead run, already reaching for Caitlin, whose hair is already streaking with white. 

“Frost?” asks Len, carefully reaching for her shoulder. 

“Cold.” 

There is nothing but ice in Caitlin’s smile, and her eyes are just as black as the rest of them. Barry rises from his seat and flops comfortably down onto Mick’s other thigh, wrapping his arms tight around Mick’s shoulders.

“Run on home, Iris. And when you get back, warn your father that should he listen to Eobard Thawne and come anywhere near this place, it won’t end well.” drawls Barry. 

“We take care of our own.” agrees Mick. 

“Or, alternatively, you can stay.” offers Len, a smile creeping across his face. Mardon is kneeling in the next booth over so he can bury his face in Caitlin’s shoulder – it’s a comfort, something tangible and strong, like reunited favorite siblings. Frost and Wizard had always been close. 

“Stay? And end up dead?” says Iris, shaking her head.

“Stay and be ours.” Len’s eyes are hard and serious. Iris looks between Barry, eyes a natural hazel once more, grinning at Len’s offer and still clutching at Mick’s shoulders, looks at Cisco, his hands braced on the table while he waits for her answer, hope and excitement in his eyes. She looks at Caitlin, holding Mardon’s hand and smiling from under her newly snow-white hair. Her inhale is shaky as she prepares to speak.  
***  
Joe and Eddie arrive on the edges of Central two days later, with Eobard, Jay, Kendra, and Carter pulling up next to them, and face no resistance at all as they travel to the diner. The whole place seems almost uninhabited, right up until they reach the diner. The place is packed, each individual seat taken, and right by the door, in the nearest booth facing towards the glass, Barry and Cisco. Len Snart, Cold, stands with his hip propped against the wood of the booth, one possessive hand resting on Barry’s shoulder. Mick Rory is draped over the shoulders of a young man Joe recognizes as former Central High RB Jefferson Jackson, poking at him like a father teasing his son. Caitlin Snow is lounging in a chair with her back resting against Sara Lance’s arm. Every body in the room is tense, fingers tightening on barely concealed weapons. Joe steps forward, pushes open the door. 

“Our quarrel is not with you.” says Cold. 

“It will be if you don’t tell me where my daughter is.” says Joe. There’s a pause, like an old Western standoff, and then the crowd moves a little, revealing the table at which Iris sits, her hand white knuckled where she grips missing Central City Picture News reporter Linda Park’s forearm. 

“Whatever they’ve done to you –“ Joe starts. 

“They haven’t done anything. I’m fine.” 

Linda makes a comforting noise and layers her other hand over Iris’s. Joe pushes into the open space, takes the seat by Iris’s shoulder, lets her lean into him for warmth and comfort.

“Are you okay?” he asks.

“Shaky and a little overwhelmed, but fine. These – they’re good people, if you ignore the murder.” says Iris, a sideways smile on her face. 

“Murder’s not typically something we ignore.” says Joe.

“Sometimes it should be.” says Iris. “Lewis was a dick.” This last is spoken a little louder than the first, as if it was intended to be heard by others. Behind the counter, Glider grins. 

“Thanks, Bly.” 

Oh no, Iris has a nickname. Iris is a Rogue? 

“Honestly?” says Iris. “I’m not one of you.”

“You might as well be.” says Glider.

“You’re ours.” says Heatwave. Joe looks up, bewildered. “And that extends to you, too, Detective.”

“Our quarrel is with the Angels outside.” says Cold. “We would have you stay here, where you will not be hurt.”

“Is that Cold talking? Or Barry?” asks Joe, hand inching towards his side arm. It’s not that he doesn’t trust Cold, it’s just that he doesn’t trust Cold.

“It’s Barry, asking Cold nicely because Cold likes him, isn’t that right.” says Barry, glancing up at the older man. Cold smiles at him, genuinely affectionately. 

“That he does.” says Cold. Joe knows that look intimately. That’s the look a father gets when looking at his sons. 

“Then can’t you let whatever this is go?” asks Joe, because maybe he can appeal to that look.

“It’s an old quarrel, Detective. Older than any of us.” offers Heatwave, gesturing around the room.

“Do you even remember what started it?” 

“We all do. Anger, resentment, and questioning authority.” says Cisco.

“Willful arrogance and pride!” yells Thawne, from outside. Joe’s beginning to wonder if he did the right thing in bringing Thawne here.

Cold pushes off the wall, and Heatwave rises to stand next to him. Over his shoulder, Cold addresses the assembled Rogues. 

“You need not stand with us.”

Hartley Rathaway rises from his chair.

“We will always stand with you.” He says. The Rogues rise as one, swarm towards the doors, weapons in hand. They are all grinning, something feral and beautiful in their barely suppressed violence, like the berserkers of old stories. 

And then, with a sly grin, Hartley whispers something, low and quiet, that sounds like a battle cry. It’s on all of their lips, screaming in all their raised voices as they pour out of the diner and into a fray so fast Joe can barely see it. 

Once the dust settles, once Joe is watching his son and Cold’s people standing over the broken bodies of the people who had stood against them, he echoes that cry. When the bell over the door jangles brokenly as Cold re-enters at the head of his bruised and beaten people, it drips over his lips like an overflowing sink. 

“Lucifer.” 

Cold smiles like a shark.


End file.
